By the time I hit Manhattan, the crowds are thick. It’s the end of the business day, and commuters are pouring out of buildings, threading through the open air concrete park dotted with trees, fountains, and mini gardens.
I park in an alley near a loading zone and jog toward the open plaza.
Café Verona sits at the far end, its red awning fluttering in the wind. I find a bench under a half-dead tree about fifty yards out and sit, pretending to check my phone while my eyes sweep the crowd.
I map it piece by piece: every table, every alley, every rooftop. The only faces I recognize belong to our guys. Vin’s posted up across the fountain, cigarette dangling from his lips, posture casual, but his eyes sharp.
Then I see her.
Catarina. Giovanna’s mother.
A weight settles in my chest. What the hell is she doing here? This can’t be a coincidence. Is she bait? Is someone about to takeher out to send a message to me—or to Gi? That sounds exactly like something Aurelio would do, the sick fuck.
Catarina is sitting alone at a patio table in front of Cafe Verona, stirring a coffee she’s not drinking. I immediately text Vin:
Eyes on the woman at
Verona. Giovanna’s mom.
He looks up, spots her, gives me a curt nod, and starts making calls.
I text one of our men nearby, tell him to slip her a note that says onlyLeave now.He does as I ask, crossing around behind the cafe then slipping it on her table as he walks by.
She reads it, rolls her eyes, and pulls out her phone. A few seconds later, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from the unknown number.
For a genius, you’re really
not very smart sometimes.
Who do you think called
you here, Tommy? Get
over here.
I stay put, scanning rooftops, restaurant tables, doorways. Nothing. No glint of light on metal, no out-of-place shadows, no sign of danger. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t one.
Catarina glances around, finds me easily, and smirks. Shaking her head, she types again.
Fine. I’ll come to you.
Grabbing her bag, she stands and crosses the quad like she owns it—heels clicking, chin high, hips swaying. More than a few menturn to watch her walk by, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She has that same defiant energy Giovanna gives off when she wants to fight.
When she stops in front of me, she doesn’t bother saying hello. “You need to stop fucking your assistant.”
My brain stutters. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Her tone could cut glass. “You want some advice? Stay away from that cunt and get yourself tested.”
I blink, caught between confusion and disbelief. The Catarina I know is quiet, refined, Lorenzo’s peacekeeper. She’s demure, polite, the one who smooths his rough edges. This version of her is sharp and fearless. This is a side to her I’ve never experienced, and I’m not sure how to respond. I want to snap, but this is Giovanna’s mother.
“I’m not fucking Una,” I say evenly. “I’m not fucking anyone. I’m with Giovanna.”
She laughs, a short, dry sound. “Right. And all those women the tabloids caught you with? The ones you sent jewelry to? What was that, Bible study? Baking cookies?”
My frown deepens. “What women?”
She lifts a perfectly arched brow. “Don’t play dumb with me, Tommy. The media was full of pictures of you and various women, never the same one twice, if I recall. And my husband wasn’t shy about sharing the details of the many jewelry orders you sent to women all over town.”
